The British and The Boss
by Madam Gam Gam
Summary: Thomas' life hasn't been the best. He's broke, lost the love of his life, and is now slowly drinking himself stupid. Luckily he's (Literally) hit with a chance to turn his life around, but at a price. Now he practically owes his life to one of the most eccentric men he's ever met – and it just so happens that he's Thomas' future boss.
1. Prologue

WARNING: This story contains a lot of graphic material including language, violence, suggestive dialogue, ethnic slurs, gang violence, alcohol abuse, some minor sexual content sprinkled throughout chapters (man on man. OCxOC, to be exact.), nudity, mentions of Chinese take-out men - Pretty much everything that would make your granny blush.

Please read responsibly. c:

* * *

_You never thought I actually loved you, did you? _

Again and again, the man's mind like a broken record played the same bitter tune. Not even the warmth of alcohol was enough to dull her cruel words. It had been two weeks already, a long two weeks filled dangerous amounts of various hard liquors coursing through the Brits veins.

Scratching at the unshaven bush growing on his face, he noted how little liquid was remaining in his bottle of vodka - his _last_ bottle of vodka. Would he stay inside and learn to live without for a while, or risk showing the world his weak shell of a man? It was hard enough hiding himself from someone such as the Chinese take-out guy. Granted, Stilwater was a shithole anyways, but Thomas had always prided himself on how he looked so much better than the scum lurking about the town. He was a man who always had a clean shave, perfectly groomed hair and the best of clothes – well, the best he could afford. Now, it would be hard to tell that he was that man.

He sat up and cracked his back, satisfied when he heard a distinct crack. He stared at a picture at his coffee table, slowly reaching over and picking it up. The photo was of a woman – a very attractive one – in a sultry red dress and locks of blonde hair falling gracefully down her back. This woman was the center of Thomas' world, but also the cause of his pain. He sniffled just looking at the picture, rubbing his thumb over the frame. He began getting that weird feeling in his chest again, like someone held his heart in a death grip and would not let go. He looked at the picture in one hand and his bottle of vodka in the other. He sighed heavily, placing his picture neatly back on the coffee table before he stood up.

"I need booze. . ." He mumbled, taking a last swig of his bottle before tossing it in the pile with the others. He grabbed a jacket from a pile of clothes sitting at the end of his couch. It was a gaudy shade of red that clashed with everything else Thomas was wearing. It also smelled a bit off, like a dirty sock cocktail but the man didn't care and threw it on anyways. Adjusting it in the mirror, he scowled at how pale his face was – even more so than usual. "Bollocks." growled the man as he brought his hand up to feel his chin. He would shave but he had to make a decision – Razors or alcohol. It's probably obvious which he would prefer.

_Thomas, shave your filthy face. You look like a fucking hobo._

Turning from the mirror to the door, the Brit started to dig around in his pockets. Pulling out his Armani wallet – possibly the most expensive thing he owned – he nearly cringed at how light it was. Daring to peek in, he noticed only two bills, enough to buy a few bottles or one bottle of the good stuff. He couldn't quite make up his mind, so he just decided he would make his choice when he got there. Wading through the sea of hopelessness and dirty underwear the buzzed Brit arrived at his front door. Hesitating he placed his clammy hands on the knob and slowly turned. Taking a gulp he stepped out into the cool October night.

* * *

Half an hour later Thomas was stepping out of the liquor store onto the filthy streets of what he called "Ghetto Stilwater" – practically the bowels of lower-class Stilwater. Shuffling down the cracked and decrepit sidewalk the Brit made his way home which he instantly knew would be a walk he'd enjoy better than the walk here. This was emphasized by two full brown bags he held in his left hand – the sweet treasure of which he had come for in the first place.

He had gotten enough to get him through the next week or so. _And after that?_ He preferred not to think about it. What was important was now – and now, he had his favorite vodka. Of course, you didn't expect a man like him to be patient and wait to drink it when he got back to his apartment, did you? No – Thomas was not a very patient man and in his mind he already endured enough torture. He would not allow his sweet miracle to taunt him. In his right hand he clutched the neck of a bottle, freshly opened. Sweet nectar passed his lips and warmed him up instantly causing his cheeks to flush red.

"Oh baby. . . At least someone around here loves daddy." He cooed to the vodka bottle, kissing it lovingly. Lucky for him no one was around to see his embarrassing display of affection – even though people around this part of Stilwater were used to seeing late night drunks and probably would've just brushed it off. And even if they had paid it any mind Thomas wouldn't have cared, not like they knew what he was going through. What he had gone through. . .

_Thomas, tone down the drinking a bit would you? God, you're an embarrassment._

"Nope, not drunk enough." He muttered as he tilted his head back and took a big gulp out of the bottle until he was left gasping for air. He drunkenly grinned and pressed the bottle to his cheek. "Don't tell the others, but you're my favorite." He chuckled to himself, continuing on the path ahead.

Minutes passed and soon the alcohol began taking its effect. Thomas suddenly felt happy – though at this point he couldn't really differentiate between "happy" and "drunk". He soon found himself humming, which soon turned into a drunken slur of lyrics. "_Early in the mornin'_. . . " a quick sip stopped him from continuing. ". . . _risin' in the street. Light me up that cigarette and I strap shoes on my feet._" His voice was low and his accent blended itself into the song.

Rounding the corner three men came into his vision about a few buildings down. From the looks of it they were pissed and they did look like the type of people you would want to fuck with. Each one was wearing a yellow jersey with various yellow accessories - wristbands, headbands, etc. Thomas knew what these guys were and knew that one wrong move could result in his head getting blown off. He kept his head down as he got closer the group, hoping to pass behind them without drawing attention to himself. "Got to find a reason, a reason things went wrong. . . " he continued to sing, but kept his voice even lower – he figured it would be the only way to keep his cool.

"Man, can you believe this shit?" Thomas halted as he heard yelling, lifting up his head to find the source. He didn't have to look very far - across the alleyway from him stood three men all wearing a yellow jersey and various yellow accessories.

Thomas hadn't lived in the bad side of Stilwater for long, but he already learned of the plague of gangs that roamed the streets. That being said, it's not like he went and spent all his free-time learning every single thing about these gangs. No, as you probably know his free-time was dedicated to the lovely bird known as _Grey Goose_. But he did know little things about them - there were four gangs total, each with their own color which of course was typical of gangs. He even knew them by name - The Vice Kings, the Freeside Rollers, the Los Carnales and the. . . the. . . wait, what was that other one?

"Can you BELIEVE those fucking wet backs?!" the same voice ranted again, jabbing his finger at the wall in front of him. Said man was rather large with a round, bald head. And what he was pointing at was a mess of red paint on the brick wall. Upon further inspection it was revealed to be graffiti words spelling out "Los Carnales". "Who the FUCK do they think they are?!"

"Eaaasy man, calm down." One put his hand on the larger one's shoulder. This man had healthy dark skin and had his short hair fashioned into dreadlocks.

"THEY think they can get away with tagging OUR turf?" He growled, slamming a fist against the wall in front of him. Thomas gulped - he definitely didn't want to make a wrong move around this guy.

"Don't worry big guy, we aren't going to let them." The third pulled something out of a canvas bag hanging by his side. Whatever it was he started to shake it causing it to make a cacophony of metal on metal. To a normal person the sound of someone else shaking up a can of spray paint wouldn't cause much reaction in the slightest. Of course, we're talking about a drunken Brit at this moment - and this sound caused said Brit to let out a frightened gasp. It was shrill and caught the attention of the other two gang members, which turned to look at Thomas.

"What're you looking at?" boomed the bald one as his face scrunched up at Thomas. The Brit froze, acting like a deer in headlights. He attempted to say something but a lump had lodged itself in his throat.

"I-I. . ." Thomas' heart began beating rapidly, drumming in his chest.

"HEY, Wait a minute!" Just as he was about to start he was cut off by the one with the can - he had stopped mid-spray and left a giant, half-finished "C" on the side of the building. "You's one of them, ain'tcha?!" his voice was heavily influenced with a southern accent - pretty far from the image of a "gangsta fo' life".

"I-I. . . what?" Thomas was baffled - one of what?

"Hey, he is! He's a fucking Mex!" While it was true that Thomas had Mexican grandparents, he wasn't exactly what you'd think of when you thought of a Latino. Even with dark hair Thomas still had the palest skin imaginable and the most stunning green eyes. But it being night and the alleyway being so dimly light, it was possible the gang members saw his skin darker than it really was. But really, Thomas saw no reason why that would be a problem. That is, of course until he remembered what had been previously scrawled on the walls - A Spanish name for an entirely Hispanic gang. He then remembered what he had left the house in, looking down to see his messy, tattered red jacket. . .

"Oh fuck." Thomas said aloud, taking a few steps back. At this point his heart sped up, thumping against his chest almost painfully.

"Yeah." said the darker of the two, reaching behind him. "'Oh fuck' is what I'd be saying too." What he had pulled out was newly polished, fully loaded, and had an owner who was just itching to pump somebody full of lead. The other two stood behind him, each with a wicked smirk on their face. The gangster stepped forward until he stood in the middle of the alleyway, his gun pointed directly at none other than Thomas, who now was gripping the brown bags to his chest. So, this was how it was going to end - to be honest not exactly how he had envisioned it. "Do you have any last words, Mex?"

"I. . .I. . . uhm." Thomas sucked in air and held his breath for a moment. He at the gun, then the man and finally down at his bags. Bringing his head back up he stared at the man before finally shaking his head. He heard the screech of tires not too far off - he wasn't sure why he paid much attention to it, seeing as that sound was constant in a place such as this. Then again, it could probably be the last time he would ever hear it. There was another screech, only this time it was closer. . .

"Oh well." said the man, breaking through Thomas' thoughts. "I'd say it was nice knowing you. . ." said the man, taking aim. ". . . but then I'd be lying." Again, there was another skid of tires but this time it sounded as if it was only one street over. "Adios, _amigo_." the gangster stood, his index finger hovering over the trigger, just standing and aiming, neither of them saying a word. He and his cohorts were smirking evilly, enjoying the power they held over this man - this sad, sad shell of a man. Moments of silence passed and Thomas was expecting a bullet to shred through him by now. It was killing him, not knowing if he would die or when he would. Were they just messing with him?

"Hurry up mate! I don't have all day!" Thomas gasped out, sniffling as he tried to hold the tears back. "Quit being a bastard and get it over with!" The man was dragging it out - he could tell. But Thomas just wished, for once in his miserable existence, someone would have the decency to not torture him. Just once. . . Just for one measly second, try to make him happy. But of course, he knew he was asking for too much. Hearing a growl of anger form the gangster, he expected the next thing he heard was to be the click of the trigger followed by a gunshot. But as Thomas learned a long time ago, fate likes to fuck with him.

Instead of a gunshot, instead he heard -yet again - the screech of tires right beside him followed by the loud thud of his head against something hard and hollow. After that, everything went black.

* * *

Author's Note: Hi guys, thank you so much for taking time out of your day to read my story~ (evenifitwasjusttheprologue,thanks)

Just as a note, this story begins with the first game, but a majority of the story takes place with the events of the Third.

I haven't written many stories, if any, but I have big plans for this one. And seeing as I'm a bit new to writing, I'd appreiciate any feedback telling me how I can improve my writing and whatnot. (Of course, if you're not too busy c: )

I actually have big plans with this story, I already have so many ideas for future chapters` (Thanks to hours of co-op with my good friend Shy)

Anyways again thanks for reading and please have a nice day~

**~Rapture**

Thomas Edwards (c) Shy-Kill Deviantart

All other characters are property of the Saints Row franchise


	2. Ain't That a Kick in the Head

Thomas awoke to a fiercely sharp pain throughout his entire body,the worst of it being his head. He let out a low groan as his hand rested itself on his head, and massaged the temple. Of course the Brit had rough hang-overs before, but none of them were this ungodly and painful - it was as if a hammer was repeatedly smashing itself against his skull. Not only that, but his bed felt as if it was swaying - each tiny movement causing him to wince in pain. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, it's not as if his bed was actually moving, right?

He groaned as he switched from his side to laying on his back, which he figured would be more comfortable. Thankfully it was, but his pillow had this weird lumpy feeling. It also felt oddly warm, warmer than Thomas' head just laying on it for hours. Again, maybe his mind was just being affected by the gross amounts of vodka he had consumed. That would also probably explain the dream he had just had, I mean it's not like stuff like that actually happened, right? And yeah Thomas was in pain, but that was probably because he drank too much and his hang-over was fucking with the rest of him. Something like that - the Brit didn't want to think about it too much, it only made his head hurt much worse.

_Bloody Goose always screwing with me. . ._ Thomas thought to himself, sliding his hand from his head down the length of his face. He let out a heavy sigh and let the arm fall off the side of the bed. His head throbbed, but he made no effort to rub his temples again. Instead, he lay pitifully allowing the throbbing to prevent him from thinking straight.

_I hate you, you bloody bird. _

Suddenly, Thomas felt something go through his hair. He flinched a bit believing it was one of the many cockroaches that roamed his home - but after a moment he realized it was not an insect of any sort. After a moment he figured out it was fingers, fingers being graced through his hair. Despite the unkempt condition of his hair, the fingers did not tug or pull - instead they slid through as if his hair was made of butter. It was nice. He wasn't concerned with the fact he probably wasn't alone in his bed - it's not like he hadn't brought home prostitutes before. That being said Thomas had never encountered one this intimate before, but you don't see Thomas complaining.

_Oi sweetie, I pick you up earlier?_ he thought to himself, starting to grin like an idiot. With each massage of his scalp he let out a silent sigh of bliss. Thomas was happy - though it would be wise to assume that alcohol, yet again, was a part of the equation, but then again Thomas didn't care much, now did he? Thomas smirked and relaxed against the hooker's gentle touch.

"Sweet'eart, this lovey-dovey stuff, it won't cost me extra will it?" Thomas asked.

"Cost? What are you talking about bro?" came a baritone voice in reply. Thomas' breath caught in his throat when he came to the realization that the voice did not belong to a beautiful woman, or any woman at all. The voice was very distinctly a man's voice.

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT JESUS MOTHER FUCKING CHRIST " Thomas screamed, bolting up and slamming his head into the roof of the car. This caused the pain in his head to escalate, making him curl forward and hold his head in his hands. "OH MY FUCKING GAAAAAAAAAAWD."

"Hey, easy now!" called a voice from the drivers seat. "C, what the hell is happening back there?"

"It's fine Troy. I think he's just having Vietnam flashbacks or something." the other in the backseat answered. Thomas felt hands on his shoulder, which he quickly shrugged off.

"Don't you fucking touch me!" Thomas winced as he yelled, bring hands to his head.

"Calm down man. We don't know if you have brain damage yet, so it's not good to go thrashing around like that." Troy said, keeping his gaze to the road in front of him.

"I don't have bloody brain damage!" Thomas snapped, resorting back to rubbing his temples. He sat in the middle of the backseat, hissing as he rubbed at new bump on his forehead.

"Y'sure? Because you definitely sound like it." Thomas glared at the back of Troy's head before snapping.

"I _DON'T_ have brain damage, I'M FUCKING BRITISH." Yelling wasn't wise which Thomas found out quickly when pain assaulted his head yet again, but he did his best to ignore it. "And why the FUCK would I even have brain damage in the first place?"

"Well. . ." C began. His voice didn't reveal any sort of nervousness, but even if it did Thomas wouldn't have sensed it. Thomas turned to face him, his frown deepening as he faced the other man. The man in question had painfully blond hair - which was obviously bleached and slicked back in a wanna-be-Elvis fashion. He wore glasses, evident by the glint off his eyes whenever the car passed a streetlight. Other than that, there wasn't much to be seen of the other due to the darkness and Thomas' eyes being blurred with tears. Thomas sneered at him before snapping. "What?"

"Y'see. . ."

"WHAT?"

"You might've. . . Been hit with a certain mobile of the auto sort. . ." Thomas' eye twitched.

"What does that even mean?" He rasped.

"What he's saying is that we turned you into road kill." Troy cut in. Thomas' face didn't know what emotion to represent, too many were going through his head. Surely he was joking. Thomas took a deep breath, feeling C's eyes on him. Thomas took an even deeper inhale before gritting his teeth and asking.

"What?" That was all he could think of to say.

"What part didn't you understand? Maybe you really _are_ brain damaged." Troy snidely remarked.

"I am NOT." Thomas growled. "I just. . . alright, let me get this straight. Are you trying to tell me that YOU hit ME with your bloody car?"

"**YOU**. HIT **ME**. WITH YOUR BLOODY CAR?! Thomas was now glaring at Troy, his eye twitching with rage. He was leaning closer and was quickly in arm's reach of Troy.

"Man you sure are slow." Troy replied coolly.

"You bloody tosser! I could have been KILLED!" Thomas snarled, looking as if he was about to lunge at Troy.

"Could have. Should have. Didn't. Congratu-fuckin'-lations." replied Troy, his voice overflowing with sarcasm. Thomas growled yet again, his already short fuse grower shorter by the second.

"Listen asshole!" Thomas yelled, ignoring how much it hurt his head. "You best stop acting like such a dick and tell me why the FUCK you hit me with your car or so help me God-" Thomas was cut off by C tugging roughly on his arm. A snap of his head to the left revealed that C was holding - no, hugging - Thomas' arm to his chest, his face buried into the Brit's shoulder. The behavior reminded Thomas of a child. It actually was a bit surprising seeing as how the other man had appeared. But of course Thomas didn't often follow the concept of not judging a book by it's cover.

"Troy didn't hit you with the car, okay?" He mumbled pathetically. Thomas sat with his arm in a vice, not really able to do much but cock his brow.

"What?" C did not let go, but he spoke more clearly.

"Troy didn't hit you with his car." He repeated. His tone was firm but his voice still faltered slightly. At the same time his hold on the Brit's arm was released. Thomas quickly yanked his arm from the other.

"What the HELL do you mean?" He inquired, rubbing his arm. It was not sore - well any more than it had been - but he didn't enjoy the way it was held. "Of course he bloody did! What, you saying I was hit by some other car?! Or maybe I just decided to do this to myself?!" He spat, his rage rekindling. "Was I or was I NOT hit by a bloody car?!"

"No, I was just saying Troy didn't-" C began.

"You already said that you twat!"

"Don't you talk to him that way." Troy cut in, his voice serious and laced with anger. Thomas snapped his head forward.

"Hey, I'll talk to him any way I fucking please!"

"REALLY? Then how about I come back there and I shove that _bloody_ head of your's-"

"Troy." C said, his voice calm. "It's okay, I can handle this." Troy looked at the blonde through the rear view mirror. He kept dark eyes on him for a moment before he nodded and returned attention to driving. C looked back towards Thomas, who still kept him glare fixated on Troy. C allowed a few moments of cool down before addressing the enraged Brit.

"Look I won't sugar-coat it. Yes, you were hit by a car."

"How many times you going to say that before making your point, mate?" Thomas muttered. C nodded and closed his eyes before continuing on.

"You were hit by Troy's car, but he wasn't driving." C took a deep exhale. "I was."

"Y-you. . ." Thomas growled lowly, his nostrils flaring. He kept his head down as he rage slowly began to boil out of control.

"Yes. And I apologize. If there's anything I can do to make it up, please tell me!"

"Oh, so you're SORRY? So I guess that makes it okay?" Thomas muttered. Troy's brow furrowed. Though it probably went undetected by C, Troy could distinctly hear venom in the man's voice.

"Well no. . ." C replied, a small grin on his face. "But you seem to be taking this so well."

"Oh really? You think so?" Thomas hissed as he balled both hands into fists.

"Yea! You seem way different from earlier. I thought you'd flip out even worse or something!" Thomas let out a low chuckle as he slowly raised his head. C chuckled as well - a more upbeat, happy chuckle.

"Oh? Do you think so? You think I'd flip out worse?" Thomas stopped chuckling, C did not. "Well. . ." Thomas' nostrils flared as he brought a fist up and connected it with C's jaw. Thomas wasn't a very strong person but the punch was enough to send an unaware C back and slam his head against the window. ". . . You'd be right." Thomas hissed angrily. C's glasses slid off onto the floorboard as he sat dazed.

"HEY! What the hell was that?!" Troy barked, quickly bringing the car to a halt. They were on a side road late at night, so it wasn't likely that any cars would be behind them. Even if there had been Troy wouldn't have paid any mind anyways.

Thomas ignored Troy and grabbed C's neck with one hand while he wound the other up in preparation to strike again. Thomas glared into the other man's eyes - they were amber and the irises were oddly small. Thomas referred to eyes like these as "crazy eyes" and thought they would be useful for intimidation. But C's eyes were not intimidating at all, far from it. His eyes were fierce looking yes, but it wasn't frightening. His eyes were gentle and showed only a good soul. How could Thomas punch someone like this? Simple: Because he was Thomas.

He went to land another punch but C moved his head causing Thomas' fist to bash the window behind him. He let out a hiss of pain before bringing his hand back. He held it against his chest as he cursed under his breath.

"GET OFF OF HIM! What is your deal?!" Troy yelled, now turned in his seat to face the two.

"This tosser could have killed me!" Thomas roared.

"I said get off of him!"

"Make me." Thomas brought his hand back up forming it into a tight fist yet again. C took the chance to make a grab at Thomas' hand, successfully grabbing his wrist.

` "Thomas! Calm down!" C pleaded with the raging and half-drunk Brit. Teeth were gritted roughly as Thomas tried to free his hand from the other man's grasp.

"WHY? You scared about how badly I'm going to fuck you up?!"  
"It's not me I'm worried about. . ." C whimpered.  
"Oh yeah?! Well-" Thomas was about to retort with a sarcastic come-back until he happened to hear a click from behind him. He stopped struggling and remained still. His expression of rage faded and suddenly he felt a lump form in his throat. He couldn't quite put his finger on what made the click, but it still sent shivers up his spine.  
He looked at C's face - his expression was that of horror and he looked utterly baffled. Thomas swallowed the lump after a moment and decided to turn his head to the front of the car.

He wished he hadn't. The moment Thomas turned his head he was hit with an sickening sense of déjà vu.

* * *

Author's Note:

On the topic of cars hurting people, guess who just got back from driving class? BD

Yea you don't care / o /

Alright so. . . I just wanna thank my wonderfully sexy beta-readers. I swear I'm scared of becoming more independent now because you guys just. . . You make this story what it is and will be. AndIloveyou.

I would also like to thank those who took time and gave me feedback, all your comments gave me the warm fuzzies.

And a HUGE thank you to my good friend Shy-Kill for the lovely cover art~

/She's bribed me with drawings. For every chapter I get done, I get a picture of Thomas and C. WHOOT / o /

But yea. . . Yeeea. . .

Yeeeea. . .

/rolls away into the bowels of the internet

**~Rapture**

Thomas Edwards (c) Shy-Kill on Deviantart

"C" (c) Moi

All other characters are property of the Saints Row franchise


	3. An Offer He Can't Refuse

The second his eyes grazed the gun in Troy's hands, Thomas released C and bolted to the other end of the backseat.  
"Troy! Put that away!" C pleaded as his eyes darted from Thomas' horrified face to the polished gun held in Troy's right hand. His other hand and arm were rested on the passenger seat, fingers tapping against the leather. "You're scaring him!"

"I-I'm not bloody scared!" Thomas retorted.

"Oh really? You must be a pretty good actor then." Troy remarked, bringing his right arm to hang loosely over his knee. He was no longer aiming the gun but Thomas still kept his eyes on it. His hands were clammy and visibly shaking, which was fair to say about the rest of him as well. He tried to hide it by balling his hands into fists and shoving them into his jacket pockets and keeping his head down against his chest. C frowned, his face growing serious as he looked at Troy.

"Seriously dude, just because you get comfortable using a gun doesn't mean you can go around pointing it at people who get on your nerves."

"Oh God forbid you try to kill me twice in one night." Thomas muttered against his chest.

"Technically I can. Especially if he happens to be assaulting an unarmed man." Troy said, ignoring Thomas' comment. Troy moved from between the seats to sitting back in the driver's seat. He fiddled with his gun before putting it back in it's holster.

"But Troy, I'm fine aren't I? It's not like he was going to take a knife to my throat or something." C argued, rubbing the sore spot on his jaw.

"But he could have." Troy took a drag from his cigarette. Thomas lifted his head slightly and inhaled the smoke. Most people hated the smell but he loved it - probably because he smoked like he drank. His cravings began to gnaw at him and he was in desperate need for one. Sadly he left all his packs back home and due to the circumstances really didn't want to bother asking for one.

"Look at him, does he REALLY look like the type to pull a knife in a fist fight?"

"It's only a fight if both parties are involved."

"I grabbed his wrist!"

"In self defense."

"Yeah but. . ." C trailed off, not really able to defend his case much further.

"See? You were just being nice and this asshole decides to attack you." Troy said, turning his head to give attention to Thomas. Thomas snapped his head up and scowled at Troy

"Nice? _NICE?_" Thomas spat. "You call this man _nice_?"

"Yes. Who's the one trying to defend you here?" Troy asked rhetorically.

"So I should just treat him like he's some sort of god or something just because he's being 'nice'?" Thomas emphasized the last word using his fingers to make air quotes. "YEAH, that's it. Treat the guy like a god because he hurt my hand." Thomas flexed his still sore hand as he mentioned it. The thought of it reminded him of his other sore parts. Thankfully his headache had finally subsided.

"You were the one who attacked him in the first place."

"He was the one who was asking for it! Or have you forgotten how he RAN ME OVER?"

"It's not like I meant to. . ." C whimpered.

"Oh SO because it was an accident that makes everything PEACHY? 'Oh this poor Brit could have died, but hey I didn't do it on purpose!'" Thomas mocked with a sneer on his face. "Oh no, that's not how it bloody works! Let me tell you something -" Thomas was about to continue before he was cut off by Troy.

"No, let me tell _you_ something." Troy's voice was filled with frustration and annoyance. "Because the fact of the matter is that you should be dead right now." He turned to face the backseat once again. "But it just so happens that the man you're accusing of almost killing you actually has done the opposite." Troy pointed at C. "This man is the very reason you aren't stone cold dead right now."

Troy couldn't get to the last word before Thomas burst into a fit of uproarious and mocking laughter. Troy's frown deepened with the sudden outburst and C jumped back a bit, not expecting what had happened.  
"HA! Th-that's rich!" Thomas said between laughs, holding his sides and leaning forward as he tried to contain it. "I-I'm sorry! It's just. . . HAHAHA! The image of THAT idiot's horrible driving saving my life!" He brought a hand to his mouth in another attempt to keep in his giggles.  
"Yes, that 'idiot' is the reason that head of your's doesn't have a bullet lodged in it." Troy stated bluntly - that was enough to stop Thomas' giggle fit. If looks could kill you could kill, well then obviously Troy would've died about five times by now. Thomas' eyes just seemed to enjoy giving Troy the meanest glare a Brit could give. "Oh quit with that look, you look so stupid." Troy said as he observed Thomas from the rear-view mirror. C just simply giggled.

"It kind of looks like he has really bad gas." Thomas quickly shot a glare at C, though it really didn't dampen his mood.

"Yea, THIS idiot saved my life?"

"I think I already mentioned that, Thomas. You know I'm getting real tired of repeating myself." Thomas was about to rebut before realization dawned on him - this man knew his name. Thinking back, he realized that it had been used before but he was too distracted with his rage to notice.

"WAIT. How do you know my name?"  
"Oh yeah! I haven't given that back yet, have I?" C said as he started digging in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Out of them he pulled something small and rectangular, which he then handed to Thomas. The Brit stared at it in puzzlement before he finally figured out what it was. It was a black leather wallet - his wallet. He quickly grabbed it from C and pulled it open. "DID YOU BLOODY TRY TO ROB ME?!" he screeched.

"Yes, because you're obviously Mr. Moneybags." Troy stated. Thomas crossed his arms and frowned.

"We were just looking for your ID." C added. Thomas turned to glare at him. It obviously didn't affect him in the least, because C just gave Thomas a huge smile in return.

"Yeah. If a strange man was splattered all over the grill of your car, wouldn't you like to know who he was?" Troy continued. Thomas grumbled and insult before he shoved the wallet into the pocket of his jacket.

"WHATEVER - Can we get back on fucking topic?" Thomas pointed his thumb at C all while keeping attention on Troy. "Explain."

"What's there to explain? You were going to get a cap busted in your ass. Car hits gangsters, car hits you. Gangsters die, you live. Now you pledge undying loyalty to your savior." Thomas snorted, but did not offer a rebuttal.

"Come on bro, I don't expect him to pledge undying loyalty to me. I mean, I did save his life but I also could've been the one to end it."

"THANK YOU." Thomas said, even sounding a bit honest. But just a bit.

"Had it been anyone else, I wouldn't expect you to either." Troy said, directing it towards C.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Thomas questioned, narrowing his eyes. C looked between the two and, not wanting another fight to break out, quickly put himself between the two.

"So uhm, hey Troy!" C chirped to the man, his goofy grin still plastered on his face. "This dude's been through a lot tonight. I'm sure he wants to go home and rest or something."

"Oh no, why would I do that? Why I just absolutely adore your company." Thomas rebutted sarcastically. "What the hell do you think?!"

". . . So is that a 'yes'?" Thomas groaned, slapping a hand to his face and slumping in his seat. _How can anyone be this fucking dense?_

"You sure C? I still think this guy owes you something for saving his sorry hide."

"I really don't want anything Tro-" C began but was soon interrupted by a loud groan from Thomas.

"I'm so tired of dealing with this. Just pick something, anything - I really don't care anymore. I just want to go home." Thomas butted in as he felt his headache begin to worsen.

"But uhm. . ."

"PLEASE. Just. . . take me home." Thomas pleaded. "Think of something on the way there."

"Alright." Troy responded sternly, shifting in his seat to buckle himself in. "But don't think you can just get out of this that easily." Thomas grumbled something close to an "ok" into the palms of his hands but it was doubtful that Troy heard or that it would matter if he had. "Where am I taking you?"

"Sunnyvale Gardens." Thomas answered, neither proud nor embarrassed. "Apartments B through C."

"Fancy." Troy said as he took the car out of park and began guiding it through the alley. Troy didn't stop before he entered the street, the three knew even in a city like this no cars were out this late. No one in their right mind was out this late in a town this dangerous. This lead C to wonder.

"Come again?" Thomas slurred as he removed his hands from his face. He knew he had heard C say something but his mind was elsewhere - mostly nowhere.

"Why are you out anyways?" C asked again, not the least bit irritated that he had to repeat himself. Thomas, now remembering the bags of alcohol he had been carrying, quickly sat up.

"Where's me booze?" Thomas inquired, a worried expression now knit on his face.

". . . Booze?"

"I was walking home from the liquor store. I-I had bags with me and then those gangsters stopped me and then. . ." Thomas stopped and took a deep breath in. ". . . I'm sure you know the rest."

"Sorry bud I'm afraid your precious alcohol has gone to Liquor Heaven." Troy said. "The bottles busted when your face met the hood of my car." Thomas' shoulders sagged as he let out a loud sigh. Again, he slumped into his seat. C frowned.

"Hey, you alright?" the man asked. "Well you know. . . aside from the obvious." Thomas shook his head and rested his temple against the window. "It's just alcohol. I mean, if it's about the money I could pay you back." The thought churned in Thomas' head for a moment but he quickly disposed of it. As much as he wanted his alcohol back he couldn't bear to hurt his pride further by having someone pay for it, whether they really did owe him or not.

"Keep your damn money. . ." Thomas sighed heavily. "I just want my goose."

"What's so important about your, er, goose?" C asked, not even able to hide the thick coat of concern that embedded itself in his voice.

"Keeps me happy." was the Brit's short, blunt reply. "Well. . . Maybe not 'happy' but it damn sure keeps me from being depressed." C's frown deepened, Troy just kept a stern expression and his eyes on the road ahead.

"And why would you be depressed in the first place?" C, not buckled in, scooted over to the middle part of the back seat. Thomas didn't react, leaving his forehead resting lazily against the window.

"Eh," the Brit began after a few seconds of silence. "Because life sucks. At least mine does."

"Why?" C was now leaning forward, resting his elbows on crossed legs and his head in the open palms of his hands. Even Troy was interested about this bitter man, though he certainly didn't let it show. He eyes flicked back and forth from the rear view mirror to the two men in back and the barren street ahead of him. Moments that felt like an eternity passed before Thomas finally spoke up to reply.

"Bloody fucking birds man, they'll ruin your life. And mine was already bad enough before she fucked it up further."

"Oh." C said, hesitantly resting a hand on the Brit's shoulder. Thomas didn't shrug it off.

"Didn't even have the decency to say goodbye. . ."

"I know how you feel. It always hurts, especially when you're so close to them."

"Just wanted to milk me dry of me inheritance. Then before I knew it, she was just. . . gone." Thomas didn't know what came over him. These two men were strangers and he was literally opening up his soul and pouring it out to them. But when you haven't had a real talk with a real human in so long it felt good to spill everything he kept bottled up. Though he knew he'd punch himself for it in the morning.

"Hey it'll be okay dude. I'm sure in a few weeks you'll forget all about her."

"But how could I?"

"Well. . . I'm sure we could find you a really nice one somewhere around town. I know of a few stores around here that-"

"'Stores'? What the bloody - I don't know what you think about me but I'm not into that whole prostitution scene." That was only half-way a lie.

"Prostitution? No dude, I'm talking about getting you a new bird!"

". . . What?" Thomas lifted his head and turned to give C a puzzled look.

"You know, a new pet bird. You seem kind of like the parakeet type of person, they're not as expensive as the other types of pet birds." Troy could be heard failing to stifle a chuckle. Thomas stared at C a moment before groaning and slapping a hand to his face.

"No, no you sodding idiot. I'm talking about a woman. She was my, er, she was my friend."

"Oh. . . So your friend she. . . used you for your money and just left? that's terrible!"

"Yea well not for her."

"So she's the reason why you need the goose?"

"Well she part of the reason, but basically yea. Then about a two weeks ago I lost me job - which I really didn't need when I got it at the time but even I knew that inheritance wouldn't last forever. Especially with her around." There was no shame in his voice as he spoke. "Came in drunk one day, asked the boss how shagging the secretary was going for him and he had security toss me out flat on my ass." Thomas chuckled at the memory of the incident. He hadn't been happy about losing his job but the look of horror and rage that was plastered on his boss' face was priceless. His face had twisted and contorted in such a way Thomas was afraid it might stick. It probably wouldn't have been as good if the secretary wasn't a guy.

"So. . . you lost your best friend AND your job? You poor thing!"

"And let's not forget tonight." Thomas added. C sat and stared at the Brit who kept his gazed fixated to the window beside him. The car was soon passing Tee'N'Ay, which even in these late hours still seemed to be packed. Bright neon lights hurt Thomas' still sensitive eyes, causing his to lower his head for a moment. Once they were past the club that only left a few more blocks until they reached Thomas' apartment. The next few minutes were filled with silence, Thomas staring outside, C staring at Thomas - as if trying to put together some difficult puzzle - and Troy gazing back and forth between the two young men. After such a long amount of time with nothing but silence Thomas couldn't help but jolt a little when he heard C exclaim something resembling "Aha!"

"I've got it!"

"Got what?" Thomas asked a bit gruffly.

"I know where I can get you a new job! It doesn't pay much right now, but that will be different very soon. And you'll get a chance to meet new friends and maybe even find a better friend than that one you were talking about."

"Oh really?" Thomas asked a bit too sarcastically.

"Oh really?" Troy mirrored Thomas' question, minus the sarcasm. "If you're implying what I think you are. . ." C looked at Troy through the mirror, unable to hold back his grin. "Oh no. No no NO. Ceasar we're desperate - but we aren't THAT desperate."

"But Troy he needs this!"

"Yea maybe, but he doesn't look like the fighting type - too much of a flake. Plus do you really want a guy like him with us?" Thomas curled his mouth into a sneer at Troy's insult, Troy ignored.

"Maybe his main job doesn't have to involve fighting. Even if it did we can always train him."

"C. . ."

"Please Troy?" C clasped his hands together. "Please please please?" Troy sighed and frowned. But as quickly as he frowned, it soon turned into a small grin.

"Wait. . . That's perfect. Nice idea C."

"S-so he can join?"

"I can run it by Julius, but I'm sure it won't take much to convince him. I'll have to lie a bit but-"

"Hold on! Don't just go putting me into some random job I know nothing about! Don't I get a say in this?"

"Oh come on Thomas! It's a really good job - you can hardly call it a job, but you'll still get money out of it."

"Uh huh. . ." Thomas skeptically raised a brow. "And what is this "job" exactly?"

"You're going to be a Saint!"

". . . Mate I'm pretty sure I'm far from being a saint."

"No I mean you're going to be a member of the Third Street Saints!" _WAIT! That's it, that's the fourth gang! The Third Street Saints!_ Thomas thought, a bit excited that he finally figured out the name of it. Out of all the gangs that roamed the streets of Stilwater he knew the least about the Third Street Saints. They were fairly new to the scene and barely had a reputation. Most only knew it by it's name and it's color, otherwise it was just like any other small town gang.

"You mean, you're offering me to join your gang? What exactly would I be doing?"

"You're going to an escort." Troy motioned with his head to C. "For him."

"Me?" C pointed to himself questionably. Troy simply nodded to him.

"Him? Just him?"

"Maybe some others from time to time, but your main duty is to get him from point A to point B as safely as possible."

"Maybe I don't want to join a gang. Maybe I'm worried about my safety." Thomas said with a challenging tone.

"Maybe I don't care. If you can take a risk drinking yourself into a coma, walking home through a dangerous neighborhood late at night and risk your ass by challenging me then a gang should be cake for you. Besides it's not like you'll be a part of the action, you're just driving C around wherever he wants to go."

"But why just him?" Thomas asked. He certainly didn't believe, even for a small gang, C was high enough in rank to get a personal driver."

"Let's consider it your payback to him. You're to be his driver as long as he remains alive and breathing. Now considering he saved your life, driving him a round a few hours a day doesn't seem like much now does it?"

"Well, if it pays I guess that doesn't sound too bad." The man was thinking about it. Though he didn't much care for driving that weirdo around he could probably get over it if a good pay was involved. More money meant more _Grey Goose_. Plus it would get that asshole off his back about payback and such. "I may need more time to think about it though." Underneath Thomas felt the familiar bump that signaled he was entering his apartments parking lot. Troy pulled up to the set of buildings, stopping.

"There's nothing to think about. You take the job or I'll make you wish that this car had killed you." He parked the car and unlocked the doors. "We'll be here tomorrow."

"I look forward to it. . ." Thomas scowled unbuckling himself. He turned to C, who was still grinning - what else could he have expected. Rolling his eyes he opened the door and stepped from the warmth of the car's backseat back into the frosty night. He turned around to close the door but was quickly halted by C.

"Hey uhm Thomas," he quickly dug on the floorboard of where he had originally been sitting. He pulled out a bottle that was all too familiar to Thomas - it was a bottle of _Grey Goose_ vodka. C held it out and it was quickly snagged by Thomas. C didn't mind though. "I wasn't sure if you still wanted it earlier. We found it with you. It didn't break but a bunch of it spilled out." He was right, the bottle couldn't barely be consider a third of the way full. But Thomas didn't care, it was enough for now. Under his fuzzy face a small smile broke.

"Wow uhm. . . Thanks mate." He said sincerely.

"Oh my name's Ceasar by the way! But everyone calls me 'C'. And that guy is my friend, Troy" Looking at the blond Thomas let his smile show briefly before it returned to his normal line of a mouth.

"Yea mate, I figured your names out a long time ago. Maybe that 'C' should stand for Captain - Last name Obvious." Though the comment was rude, the large toothy grin on C's face only grew.

"You're so silly Thomas." C grinned as he placed his hand on the door preparing to shut it. "See ya tomorrow!" He shut it tightly before waving out the window at Thomas. Thomas gave a small wave back and watched as the car circled the lot and sped out down the road until it turned and disappeared. The whole time Ceasar had been watching Thomas from the back window.

* * *

Thomas lay in his bed, above the covers, wearing a simple gray t-shirt and whatever boxer shorts he'd been wearing that day. He was tracing his eyes over the ceiling, taking a sip from the bottle he had clutched in his hand from time to time. In the matter of hours Thomas' life had changed so much he was having a bit of trouble comprehending it. He let out a heavy sigh as the events replayed in is mind. In one night Thomas left to pick up vodka, had a gun pulled on him, was knocked out by a speeding car - and survived, woke in another man's lap, got into a "fight", had a gun pulled on him (again), spilled his guts out to two complete strangers who were now apparently his co-workers, and he got a job with a gang.

The Brit could feel his eyes droop as sleep slowly began settling in his half-fogged mind. _You know, most people would have lost their shit by now. Well I did a few times but right now. . . I'm okay. Cool as a cucumber. I think despite all those outbursts I handled myself well. I mean look at me, I have a job - a paying job. Thomas, you're doing great you cheeky bastard. Only two weeks after you lose your job, you're on the brink of being another bum on the street and now look, you're a driver. Okay so it's a a terrible job but at least it's something._ Thomas smiled to himself, slowly drifting off. _I may hate the job already, but at least I have one. I have a job. . . A job with a gang. I joined a gang. . ._Thomas' eyes quickly jolted open. _Wait. . ._

"I joined a bloody gang?!"

* * *

Hey guys! It's been like. . . FOREVER since I posted onto this. I'mafailureatlife,Iknow.

But I've started typing it up again for no reason one day, I also got a bit of the next chapter done as well.

Be warned. . . I'm prone to be very slow/lazy/unmotivated.

ButI'mstickingwiththisstoryuntilt heend.

Also, I hope I'm not moving too fast or too slow or anything. I'm trying to move as swiftly as I can so I can start writing the good stuff for this story, but I also don't want to leave anyone in the dust wondering to themselves ". . . What?"

On a final note we will be entering SR3 territory soon. :'D

Very soon my children.

_Soon._

**~Rapture**


	4. Pillow Princess

Thomas felt a gentle poke to his cheek, his other buried in his pillow. He heard a soft whisper but couldn't make out the words of it before he felt another gentle poke to his cheek.

"Huuh? Whut'yew want?" He asked groggily a little less than halfway conscious. "I'ma tryin' ta sleep here." There was another whisper, this time a little louder but Thomas still couldn't make it out.

"Thomas," Ceasar whispered again, along with another poke to the man's cheek. "You gotta wake up bro." He was kneeling beside Thomas' bed, using one hand to lightly shake the Brit's shoulder and using the other to poke him. He then tried taking the bottle from Thomas' hand hoping that would do something. He had no such luck, the man had it in a vice grip. "Dude come on you gotta wake up."

"Bu' Grannma I'm still schleepy." Thomas said as he buried his face further into his pillow.  
"Too bad." Troy said as he walked over to stand beside Ceasar. "Time to wake up Sleeping Beauty." He grabbed Thomas' mattress with both hands and without hesitation yanked it up. This sent the Brit rolling down the side and onto the floor on the other side. The man landed with a rough thud on his back, a back that was still sore from incidents that occurred the night before. As soon as he made contact a string of very colorful words left Thomas' lips, all said with a thick tone of anger. "Oh good he's up."  
"Plonker!" Thomas hissed as he eased himself up. Thankfully his back wasn't too sore but his head sure was. A rough night of violence and alcohol were the cause no doubt. Even so it wasn't like Thomas wasn't accustomed to headaches. "What the hell are you doing in my house?!"  
"Wake-up call. You're late and it's your first day of the job. For shame."  
"How did you sods get in here anyways?" Thomas questioned, his piercing glare not even phasing Troy. "I might've been a bit rat arsed last night, but I always lock me door"  
"We picked the lock." Thomas sighed heavily.  
"You do know that's illegal don't you?"  
"You do know that I don't care right?" Troy turned and walked out of the bedroom. "You got ten minutes. Hurry up and get ready." Thomas glared at the man as he walked out, rubbing his back with his hand. His other still had a firm grip on the almost empty alcohol bottle.  
"You okay bro?" Ceasar asked as he peered over the bed to check on the man. The Brit muttered something under his breath before looking at the bottle in his hand. He stared at it a moment before he twisted the top off and downed the rest of whatever he hadn't drank the night before.  
"Oh yea, I'm peachy." Thomas rasped as he threw his bottle to the side, into a pile of dirty clothes. It had joined the company of three other bottles, each with the same label. "I enjoy waking up to the smell of douche bag in the morning."  
"He's not so bad once you get to know him." The blond walked over to Thomas reaching out a hand to help Thomas up. A thanks was grumbled as he accepted the hand before him and was eased up. As he stood he began rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms in an attempt to loosen his tense muscles.  
"I find that hard to believe." He muttered as he walked over to the dresser at the end of his bed. He opened the top drawer and began digging through it. C sat on the edge of the askew mattress watching as the Brit scrounged around in the mountain of socks. Somehow with the many lone socks strewn about the man's apartment there were still many more stuffed inside a drawer. After a short moment Thomas found what he was looking for and pulled out a pair of green socks shaped into a small ball. "Ah here they are."  
"What're they for?" Ceasar asked, resting elbows on knees and his chin on fists.  
"To wear. What else would socks be for?" Thomas thought a moment and quickly shook his head. "On second thought don't."  
"Why those instead of any of the other pairs?"  
"Because the other pairs aren't this one."  
"What makes those ones s-"  
"Would you quit with the damn questions?" Thomas hissed as he began his search through the chaos of his room. "I just like green socks, okay?" Ceasar instantly quieted himself, not wishing to evoke the man's wrath. Thomas continued, throwing aside various articles of clothing as excavated a rather large pile in the corner of the room. For one of the first times in a long time the Brit actually cared what he wore; at the same time he had no idea what to wear.  
"I'm not sure if this job requires me to dress 'gangster' or not." Thomas voiced his thoughts aloud.  
"What?" Ceasar chuckled. "What do you mean?"  
"I mean that I seem to be fresh out of do-rags and gold necklaces."  
"Being a Saint is about more than what you wear." Ceasar chirped, pointing a thumb at himself. He wore nothing special – just a black jacket, pale purple t-shirt and ratty black jeans. He wore nothing on his feet except a pair of mismatched socks. _Probably took his shoes off when he came in. Polite bastard._ Thomas thought. Peeking out his bedroom door, he noticed Troy sitting on the edge of his couch, looking at his phone. He too wore a jacket, a simple black t-shirt and a pair of baggy gray pants. The jacket's sleeves were rolled up and Thomas could vaguely make out the outline of a tattoo on the man's forearm. From what he could tell, it was some sort of ornate cross, one of those tattoos that Thomas always found rather tacky. _I guess it fits him, then._  
"To be honest, you can dress however you like. Well, within reason of course. There's no sense running into the middle of a gunfight sporting a polka dot bikini and a pair of sexy red pumps." Thomas imagined himself in such an outfit and didn't know whether to laugh or gag.  
"Oh dear me! I guess I'll have to find another use for that two-piece I've been saving then." Thomas chimed sarcastically, though he had a hint of playfulness in his tone. Ceasar clapped a hand over his mouth as he began an uproar of laughs.  
"Thomas man, you're so silly."  
"If you say so." The Brit rolled his eyes and stood up, frustratingly kicking the pile. "No bloody thing to wear."  
"Oh, Tommy!" C exclaimed, leaning down and picking up a shirt Thomas had tossed aside. "I think you'd look nice in this one!" C held up the shirt to show the other, hiding his usually grinning face. Thomas quirked a brow, not at Ceasar's selection of shirt but just at the situation in general. It wasn't common for men to help other men with their clothing selection, especially with phrases like 'you'd look nice in this!'.  
The shirt was a nice one though, as well as one Thomas thought he looked nice in. It was a dark grey button-up shirt with an Ainsley collar. The Brit nodded and walked over, taking the shirt from him.  
"Gee uhm. . . thanks mate?" C nodded and smiled up at Thomas, showing him a row of pearly whites. Thomas rolled his eyes again and began scanning the room for a pair of pants, soon settling for a wash-out pair of jeans. He bundled his clothes up and carried the small bundle into his bathroom, shutting the door and locking it behind him – not because of the other people in his house, just out of habit. Once in he quickly threw off his night shirt and stopped to look at himself in the mirror. All over his torso were blotches of sickly red and purple bruises. They didn't hurt as bad as they had earlier but they still left the Brit feeling sore. They'd probably hurt worse had his brain not been half fogged by the still lingering affects of the vodka chugged. After a minute of his self examination, the Brit finally pulled on the dress shirt, trying to be wary of his bruises. Some hurt worse than others, most of the painful ones located around his ribs. It took a while but he finally got the shirt on as painlessly as possible. Once it was on he realized the shirt smelled a bit funky, but decided he'd probably just mask it with cologne. Next came his pants, which weren't as hard to get on his shirt had been. His legs were dusted with bruises, but they were minor compared to the ones dotting his torso.

Moments later a fully dressed and clean shaven Thomas exited the bathroom. C was laying on Thomas' bed, hanging upside down off the edge, watching the door the entire time. His glasses were hanging off his face, held only by his ears.

"How do I look?" Thomas asked, fixing the shirt collar and adjusting the cuffs."I don't look as ridiculous as you, do I?"

"You look fucking hot, bro." C joked, flashing a grin at the Brit who in return shook his head and scoffed.

"What are you, a cock jockey?" Thomas growled as he swiped his wallet from the nightstand and shoved it into a pocket of his pants. Soft amber eyes shone brightly as the blond laughed at Thomas' words, though he was far from joking.

"The only cock-anything I see around here is you." Troy said as he entered, holding a jacket in his hand while he used the other to guide his cigarette. The jacket wasn't the one Thomas had the night before, it was a normal black one. "Are you done yet?"

"Only as long as you're done being fucktard." Thomas snapped back.

"Yea okay. Come on, unlike you I actually have things to do today." The man said as he threw the jacket in his hands at Thomas, the Brit catching it with his face.

"Then why are you here?" He growled, pawing it away from his face.

"To make sure you're not going to fuck up on your first day."

"You have such faith in me, you do care." Troy's eyes rolled expressing how little he cared as well as his boredom. He stood straight and made his way back to Thomas' living room. Hinges screeched as the front door was opened, allowing the small apartment to be filled with the sounds of the early morning city. A crisp breeze swept into the apartment, being felt even in Thomas' bedroom.

"Was he raised in a barn or something?" Thomas griped as he began pulling his jacket on and trying to ignore his sore muscles screaming at him. Halfway into it the Brit grit his teeth against the pain, an action that, even with his attempts, was not as easy to conceal as he thought. Especially when he let out a small groan of pain. "Nnnnnnngh." He had barely gotten the jacket on, the sleeves only a bit below his elbows.

"Are you alright?" C asked worriedly, putting his hands on the ground and pushing himself up so he could bring himself to a sitting position. "Do you need help?" He swung his legs over the edge and stood, walking a short distance to the Brit.

"I'm a grown man, I don't need any help - GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF OF ME!" Thomas growled as C began pulling one of the sleeves up Thomas' arms.

"You're still pretty sore from last night, huh?" C said as he guided the sleeve up. It still hurt, but it wasn't as bad as before, which Thomas was grateful for.

"I am, but I'm _NOT_ some bloody child. I can dress myself!" Thomas pulled his arm away, which wasn't a good idea. Pain shot up his arm and shoulder, causing him again to grit his teeth.

"Are you sure?" asked the other, who was obviously unsure himself.

"BLOODY POSITIVE." Thomas growled, pulling the other sleeve up - or, at least trying. A few seconds passed of Thomas holding the sleeve, trying his hardest not to break his teeth. Another try yielded the same results, and yet another. Thomas didn't try a fourth time. ". . . Alright, you can help." He reluctantly growled through his gritted teeth. C didn't say anything, but with a small smile he assisted the Brit with his other sleeve. It wasn't as if Ceasar was some sort of big, brawny guy, but he was far from being considered wimpy. Yet he was still able to gently help the other, not even so much as agitating one of the bruises on his arms or shoulder - he was treating Thomas as if he was made or porcelain.

"You're not too sore are you? I mean, I'd hate to ask you to work if you can't" Ceasar asked as he finished, standing back to give the other some room.

"Hurts a bit to move a certain way and. . . well do that. And me entire torso has a rather lovely shade of plum painted on it. But no, I'm just peachy."

". . . Sorry."

"Yea, whatever. Let's just get going." Thomas walked out into his living room, trying to ignore the sadness that resided in Ceasar's voice just then. He found a pair of shoes and just slipped them on ignoring the fact that they weren't slip-ons. Ceasar brought his shoes from the door with him over to Thomas' couch, sitting down to quickly put them on and tie them. They were a ratty pair of black canvas shoes, the kind he always saw teenagers wearing. Figuring it make take him a moment, judging how the man was trying to untie a knot in his laces the Brit decided to use time to exam himself in the mirror. Thankfully he looked less like a hobo than the night before, but bags still settled themselves under his eyes. Thomas dragged his hands down his face, squishing and pulling at his cheeks. Some color had come to his face, either from his still buzzed state or from the chill in the air.

Turning back around Thomas expected Ceasar to have his shoes on, or at least in the process of putting them on. To the man's surprise Ceasar was holding both shoes in his hands, the knot had been triumphed over and each set of strings hung to the side of their shoe. But even with the knot out wasn't even paying attention to putting them on. His attention was instead fixated on Thomas' coffee table, more specifically something that sat on top of it. Among the clutter blanketing the table, Ceasar sat looking into a small window at a beautiful, blond woman.

Thomas felt a bitter sense of rage, and even some pain, as she creeped into his mind yet again. He strided over, quickly slapping his hand down on the picture frame causing the beauty behind the glass to be hidden from the world.

"How long does it take for you to put a pair of bloody shoes on?" He rasped impatiently.

"Who's she?" Ceasar asked, sliding his right foot into the corresponding shoe.

"No one."

"She's not no one, she's someone. Someone you have a picture of."

"She's _no one_." Thomas was growing the more irritable, though it was more the woman's doing than Ceasar's.

"But if she's no one, then why do you have a picture of her?"

"Okay look she was someone, but now she's no one to me, alright?"

"Is she that friend you were talking about?"

". . . Yes." Thomas hesitated a minute, remembering that he had mentioned his ex to the two gang members the night before. He was sure Troy had understood what he'd meant by his "friend", but he thought the blond too dense to comprehend the true meaning to his words. Ceasar sat silently, staring back and forth between Thomas and the face down frame. Thomas didn't care that Ceasar hadn't finished putting his shoes on. "Let's just go." The Brit grabbed his keys from a bowl on the coffee table and quickly made his way to the door. Outside, he was enveloped in the fresh air of morning, although considering where he lived the air could hardly be called fresh. Thomas hadn't been outside this early in quite a while, it felt nice to feel the pleasantly cool air around him.

The Brit half-expected Ceasar to follow him and it took him a few seconds to realize there were not footsteps approaching from behind him.

"Seems you're slower in more ways then one, eh?" Thomas said aloud, more to himself. As soon as he had said it, he heard a small chuckle behind him as Ceasar exited his dwelling.

"Oh, sorry bro." His sudden appearance surprised Thomas, especially since he had been listening intently for his footsteps.

"Do you always take such a long time to put your shoes on?" quipped the Brit as he shut his door and stuck his key in the lock, locking it in one swift wrist flick.

"No, I just had a few other things to do real quick."

"Yea, 'quick'. What things did you possibly have to do in _my_ house?"

"You left some lights on, I just though I'd turn them off."

"Oh. . . er, thanks." Tomas hesitantly stated, pulling the key out and shoving it in his pocket. Just like locking the door, the Brit had a habit of always turning his lights off whenever he left the house. _Dammit, why am I so out of it?_

"Hey, mind getting a move on? I was hoping we could to get going before my liver spots became too noticeable." Troy called out from the parking lot. He was leaning against his car, parked in the same spot where he'd dropped Thomas off the night before.

"I was hoping you'd left by now." Thomas remarked, walking over, this time with Ceasar close behind.

"Which car is yours?" Troy asked, ignoring him.

"What if I don't have a car? You know what they say about assumptions."

"I'm assuming, but at least I'm not the bigger of the two asses. Which is it?" Thomas huffed and motioned towards his car with his head. His dark green Bootlegger was nestled between two other vehicles. Sadly, his little beat-up car was the best looking one in the whole parking lot, granted it was a small lot to begin with. The moment Troy's eyes laid upon the little Bootlegger, he didn't even try to hide his laughter. Thomas had expected some snide remark or insult at his expense, but not such a loud uproar of laughter. Troy's laughing even got so wild, he had to hold his cigarette in his hand until he caught his breath again.

"Y'know Troy, I barely know you and yet you've managed to become one of the people that I hate the most." Thomas stated as Troy's laughing began to cease, the look of annoyance not leaving his face.

"You seriously drive _that_? Come on, even I expected you drove something better than that."

"What's wrong with it?" He asked stupidly. Thomas knew there was quite a bit wrong, it was obvious to anyone who set eyes on it. It was in bad shape aesthetically – one of the headlights was busted, dents dotted the sides of it, one of the back door handles were missing. However the car still ran just fine, save a few sputters from the engine when you started it up.

"I don't like it any better, but at least it works."

"It works, for now."

"It's certainly not my Fer de Lance, that's for sure."

"Yea,_ you_ had a Fer de Lance."

"I did!" Thomas growled defensively.

"What happened to it, you sell it so you had money for booze?"

"I didn't sell it. It was. . . taken."

"Taken?" Troy contemplated a moment and nodded his head. "Oh I see. . . 'taken'."

"Yea." Thomas sighed, keeping his gaze to the ground. He did have to admit, blond girls looked nice in foreign sport cars. Troy, noticing he opened an already bleeding wound, scrambled to change topic.

"You have your license?"

"Huh?"

"Do you have a license?"

"Of course I do! Why wouldn't I?"

"Well let's look at the facts, you're a heavy drinker, you were walking when we found you, and really I'm questioning whether or not you're stable enough to drive."

"Just because I enjoy me goose doesn't mean I'm stupid enough to drive when I'm shitfaced."

"Hey would you relax? I'm just thinking of Ceasar. I don't want you to fuck something up and get him into trouble. Or you'll have to answer to me." Thomas put on a tough face, but it was hard to conceal his nervous gulp. "Alright, I've wasted enough time here. Ceasar, are you ready to – Ceasar?" Troy looked around, realizing that his teammate had disappeared.

"Right here bro!" was the reply he received from the other side of his car. "Sorry, just getting a few things."

"Come on C, you got a lot to do today – mostly teaching the fresh meat." Troy motioned with his head to Thomas, who in returned slightly furrowed his brows. Ceasar slammed the passenger door and walked back around to reunite with the other two. In his hands he held some sort of stack, so big that it required him to rest his chin on the top of it to keep it balanced.

"Sorry, a few of them slipped under the seat."

"I keep telling you that you should get a carrying case for them."

"I know, I know." Ceasar flashed a toothy grin at Thomas, which was a bit difficult considering the placement of his chin. "You ready to go?"

"Uh yea, sure." Thomas hesitated a moment before asking. "Er, what are those?"

"Those are his CDs." Troy answered for him, opening the door to his Five-O and seated himself. He didn't buckle himself in before he turned the key in the ignition causing the car to roar to life.

"What does he need with those?"

"He listens to them, what do you think?"

"I know that, but—" before the Brit could continue, Troy's door slammed shut. The Brit grit his teeth in aggravation, throwing his hands up before storming over to his car. As he walked away, Troy rolled downed his window and looked to Ceasar.

"Call me if he gives you any trouble C, I'm going to go see Julius."

"Alright, I'll bring Tommy to HQ later so he can meet the rest of the gang." Ceasar remarked before he began after Thomas. "Oh, and tell Julius I said 'hi'!" He called back, not able to turn his head to see Troy nod before shifting gears and speeding out of the parking lot.

When Ceasar got to Thomas' car, the Brit was already in the driver's seat, slumped over with his head resting on the driver's seat. The keys were in the ignition, but the car had yet to be turned on.

"How can you stand that guy?" Thomas groaned as the passenger door opened and a certain blond gangster slid into the seat.

"Oh don't worry bro, I'm sure Troy will warm up to you eventually." Ceasar said supportively, neatly placing his CDs between his feet. Unlike Thomas' apartment his car was fairly well kept, save for a few fast food wrappers in the floorboards. It didn't smell too bad either, probably because the air freshener hanging from his rear view mirror. It was one of those pine tree shaped ones like the one's you'd see sold on gas station counters and despite its shape it had a semi-stale fragrance of strawberries.

"He'll warm up to me when Hell freezes over." Thomas chuckled to himself. "Oh wouldn't that be ironic."

"Come on, I'm sure he will. Maybe you two can become friends."

"Like I said, when Hell becomes a frozen wasteland. Be sure to talk me whenever that happens." Thomas groaned, sitting up and pulling his seat belt on. "I hope the rest of my "colleagues" aren't like that." He mumbled, turning the key sticking out of his ignition. As he had said, a few small sputters coughed from the engine before it finally started up.

"So how does this work? I just drive you wherever you need to go?"

"Well you'll do more than that. I mean, what's the point of being in a gang if you just drive me around?" Thomas rolled out of the parking lot and soon he was on the back streets of Stilwater.

"So what can I expect to do then?" Ceasar was digging through his stack of CDs, observing each case front and back before returning it to the top of the stack. He soon found one he was satisfied with, opening it with great care.

"For money? There's all sorts of things we do to earn our money. But since you're a newbie, we can start with the less difficult tasks." Ceasar said, casually yet carefully opening one of the CD cases.

"So where are we heading then?" Thomas asked, really wanting to just get to the point.

"Let's head Downtown, I'm sure that'd be a nice place to start."

"Downtown, eh? I haven't been there in quite a while." Thomas commented weaving his car out of the cramped street and onto the freeway. "Not since the day I got fired." Despite it still being early, the freeway was already inhabited by a few cars. The masses were probably heading in for another long, dull day of work, similar to what Thomas would've done weeks earlier.

"Well you've got a much better job now."

"Oh, is being a gangster an occupation now? Should I have a name tag that says 'Yo dawg, my name is Thomas'?" Ceasar chuckled at Thomas' attempt of being "gangster". He frowned at the blond's mockery, though he had to admit that this "job" didn't seem too bad. Sure, he only knew two colleagues, one of which he already started to hate and another he already hated, but they weren't much worse than the co-workers at his old job.

"Oh well. I suppose anything is better than sitting behind a desk all day and clacking away on a keyboard like a zombie." Thomas spoke his thoughts aloud, earning a small laugh from Ceasar.

"Hey bro?" Ceasar began after a short interval of silence. "Do you mind if I pop in a CD?"

"I don't care, as long as it doesn't include some big black guy belting rhymes into a microphone. And I'm not your 'bro'."

"Don't worry, I don't listen to that crap." Ceasar joked, sliding a disk into the slot on Thomas' radio. After a button or two was pushed the radio churned as it read the disk. Soon, the car was filled with a quiet, steady tone of music.

_Sing to me my muses_  
_Lost in the hot cyclops anarchy_

From the speakers came the soft, hushed voice of a woman.

_Sing to me my muses_  
_Lost in the hot cyclops anarchy_  
_Possession_  
_Invention_  
_Blood, blood_  
_Spirits, spirits_  
_Sprits, spirits_

As the woman's voice grew into singing Thomas began to regret his decision.

_Calling, calling_  
_Where will these visions lead?_  
_How far dare i go?_  
_Where will this song take me?_  
_Into the deep unknown_

Thomas looked over at his passenger, who was more than happy to listen to such music. Thomas, however, was not.

_All the prophets and the gods came prepared for theirs_  
_So we dine on divine of the mind impaired_  
_Preaching werewolf prayers on a nightly flight_  
_It's tak-_

Thomas cut off the woman by slamming his hand on the radio, turning it off.

"What the hell was that?"

"That's Otep, they're awesome huh?"

"'Awesome' wouldn't be the word I'm thinking of. I thought you said you didn't listen to crap. Pick something else."

"Alright, what are you into?"

"Mmm." Thomas thought on it a moment. "You got any _Train_?" Ceasar scanned the spines of the stack before replying.

"Nope."

"_The Fray?_"

"Sorry, no."

"How about _Coldplay_?""

"Who?" Thomas sighed heavily, knowing that this wasn't going anywhere.

"On second thought, how about we just have a nice, quiet drive, yea?"

There was no objection from Ceasar as he carefully sat his precious CDs back between his feet. Even though he'd been the one to request it, Thomas didn't expect the drive to be as quiet as it was. But the silence wouldn't last for long, because not too far ahead the city of Stilwater came into view.


End file.
